I should hedge. Should give myself an out.
“I’d like that.” The words come easier than I expect. “I really would.”
Her markings blaze bright, and she launches herself at me in a fierce hug. For a second I don’t know what to do with my hands—it’s been so long since anyone hugged me like this, like I matter—but then my arms come up automatically, holding her close.
“Tavia, time for midday meal,” Cetus’s voice carries from the corridor. “You need to—”
He appears in the doorway and stops. His markings pulse in waves—bright at his temples, dimmer at his throat, then brightening again. There’s warmth there. Longing.
“Sorry,” I say, gently extracting myself from Tavia’s hug. “We got distracted.”
“The small person requested emotional support,” Pickles announces helpfully through the speakers. “The Captain provided it with exceptional empathy.”
Tavia’s watching us with barely contained glee.
Cetus’s eyes stay locked on mine. “Would you join us for midday meal?”
“I should—”
“Please?” Tavia grabs my hand. “We never have anyone to eat with, and it would be so nice to have family mealtime with more than two people!”
The word family wraps around my chest and squeezes.
Family. The thing I lost nine years ago and haven’t let myself want since. The thing that means staying in one place, building something permanent, risking the kind of grief that nearly destroyed me when Mom and Dad died.
The thing I’ve spent nine years running from because it’s easier to keep moving than to stay and lose everything again.
Behind Tavia, Cetus is watching me with those yellow eyes, his markings doing that steady warm pulse that I’m learning means he’s hoping for something he’s afraid to ask for directly.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Lunch sounds good.”
Tavia’s squeal of delight probably registers on the atmospheric sensors.
The walk to the kitchen feels different this time. Less like heading to a meal, more like stepping into something I’m not sure I’m ready for.
Tavia bounces ahead, chattering about the educational module she finished this morning—something about terraform-resistant plant species—while Cetus and I follow at a more sedate pace. His hand hovers near my lower back, not quite touching, but close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his palm.
Professional distance is dead. We’re pretending to mourn it.
The kitchen smells like whatever Cetus has been cooking—something savory with unfamiliar spices that make my stomach growl embarrassingly loud.
“Your digestive system is making demands,” Pickles observes through the speakers. “I calculate nutrient intake is now seventeen minutes overdue for optimal function.”
“Thanks for that health update.”
“You are welcome, Captain.”
Cetus has already set the table—three places arranged with the kind of precision that speaks to years of solo-parenting routines. Except now there’s a third chair pulled up, and seeing my place already prepared in their family space does something dangerous to my carefully maintained emotional walls.
“Sit, sit!” Tavia pats the chair between her and Cetus. “Papa made his special protein synthesis blend, but I convinced him to add actual flavor this time.”
“It is nutritionally complete,” Cetus says with wounded dignity as he brings serving dishes to the table.
“It’s also not terrible anymore,” Tavia stage-whispers to me. “Progress!”
I catch Cetus’s eye across the table. His markings pulse with warm amusement, and there’s something soft in his expression that makes my pulse skip.
The food is actually delicious—some kind of grain dish with roasted vegetables and protein that’s been seasoned with what tastes like cumin and something citrusy. Not ration-pack efficiency. Actual care went into this.
